Clipped Wings
by The Real Muse
Summary: Set in the universe established in "To Soar Like a Hawke" and "Shell Game." An old enemy hunts the Hawke brothers.
1. Default Chapter

CLIPPED WINGS  
  
By: CindyR Chapter 1  
  
"We're not exactly talking George Orwell here." Had Jason Locke's skin been any lighter it might have betrayed the flush frustration was rapidly bringing to his cheeks. As it was, sweat began to bead his brow as the argument progressed, his black mustache bristling at the edges. "Considering how sensitive a position you're in, I think it's only reasonable...."  
  
Stringfellow Hawke's youthful face didn't so much as twitch out of the somber mask that was habitual to him. He snatched a rag out of the pocket of his white coverall and swiped at the machine oil on his hands, his gaze focussed over the older man's right shoulder. "I don't care how 'reasonable' you think it is," he growled, "I am not going to wear a tracer."  
  
"Everyone else is wearing one," Locke's resonant baritone edged up a decibel. "Even Jo."  
  
The woman in question slid out from under the red, white and blue JetRanger helicopter that occupied the spacious hangar's center stage. "The Company gave me a tracer right after I discovered Airwolf," she said, dabbing at the grease staining her heavily-made-up, china-doll face. Succeeding only in smearing her eyeliner, she sighed and pulled herself into a sitting pose. "I may not be as 'sensitive' as you, Saint John and Mike are, but the Company likes to keep tabs anyway."  
  
"It's not that we're 'keeping tabs,'" Locke corrected her with more tolerance than he'd thus far shown. "A transponder is merely a safety precaution. You don't fly many Airwolf missions since Stringfellow rejoined the team on a permanent basis, but that doesn't mean you can't still be vulnerable to enemy interest."  
  
"Jason likes to keep all his chicks safe under wing." The amused, slightly nasal tenor came from inside the helicopter. A moment later a long-jawed face topped with short, bronze colored hair and sharp blue-gray eyes peeked out the door to grin down at Jo. "Welcome to the brood. By the way, you have something dripping on you," he added, pointing to a spreading brown stain on her once-white coverall.  
  
She muttered a mild oath and moved hurriedly out of range of the fluid dribbling from somewhere out of sight. "Darn! I must not have sealed that line properly. Somebody quick hand me that bucket over there."  
  
The bronze-haired man started to obey, aborting the action at a cheerful call from the corner. "Never mind, Saint John. I'll get it." Mike Rivers hopped off the workbench he'd been perching on during the preceding argument, and snatched the firebucket off its hook. He toted it to the woman, who had slid even further out of the way of the hydraulics leak. "Here, gorgeous, try this. We can't have those snazzy fashions of yours getting ruined, now can we?"  
  
Jo Santini accepted the bucket without a glance, positioning it where it would catch the drip. "Thanks, Mike. And ... stuff it in your ear."  
  
"She's crazy about me," Mike confided to a gravely watching Stringfellow, who only returned a blank look. He was prevented from elaborating -- something that had turned into an amiable shot-for-shot game for both men over the past couple of months -- by Locke, who stepped forward, hands held palms up and a determined look on his face.  
  
"To get back to my point," the black man rapped, turning to again stand face-to-face with the younger Hawke brother, "I'm issuing transponders as minimum equipment to several of my field agents, and that includes the Airwolf team."  
  
"Maybe we could mount it on your bike," Mike, ever helpful, suggested, uncowered by the possibility of imminent conflict; rather, his light eyes sparkled with mischief despite the conciliatory words. It was quite obvious he was enjoying the squabble hugely.  
  
"You're to have it on your person at all times," Locke went on coolly, full lips tight under his black mustache. "End of discussion. It's called following orders."  
  
Dark blue eyes glittered rebelliously through slitted lids as Stringfellow drew himself stiffly erect. Lean muscles tight as cord, he slowly and deliberately removed his amber sunglasses and placed them in his breast pocket. Recognizing the signs of impending violence, and long acquainted with his mercurial brother's low flash point, Saint John Hawke took a step out of the helicopter, stopping just behind the younger man's left shoulder. "We all agreed they were a good idea the first time one of us ran into trouble on a job," he offered, carefully neutral. "Maybe even life saving."  
  
There was no observable reaction to his words from either combatants; pilot and agent continued to stare at each other implacably, the effect being that of smoldering embers ready to burst into flames. "I think you know where you can stuff that transponder," the brown haired Stringfellow Hawke snarled, unheeding of his brother's words. "And your orders."  
  
"And you can--" Locke began in precisely the same tone. He broke off at the appearance of an elderly man in the doorway leading from the office section. "Who--? Dominic."  
  
"Yeah. Dominic." The man stared from the two near-combatants to the gaping and silent three-person audience, his craggy face registering a hefty dose of annoyance under the full beard he'd grown only weeks before. He brushed the wiry strands down over the collar of his workshirt to hide burn-scars that trailed up from his neck, the gesture having become automatic of late. "Somebody wanna tell me what the devil is going on in here?" he demanded in a gravelly voice. "Are you two fighting again?"  
  
"There isn't anything going on," Stringfellow replied sullenly, continuing to glower at the angry black agent, who was returning the look in full measure. "I'm ready to go back to my cabin...."  
  
The elderly man crossed the hangar at a rapid limp, his badly mutilated right hand going to the younger Hawke's arm, glance just brushing that of the attentive Saint John. He stepped deliberately in front of Locke, breaking the eye contact and the tension. "Oh, no, you don't, kid. You promised to stick around tonight and help me figure out the camera angles on that Bellisarius job for Monday. You know they cancelled our contracts when they thought you an' me were dead, and if this shoot isn't absolutely perfect, they aren't ever gonna renew long term."  
  
Stringfellow stuffed the rag back into his pocket, visibly reining himself in. "Mike can take care of that. I spent all afternoon yesterday with him on the technique."  
  
"I got a gold star and everything!" the irrepressible Rivers called from his side of the hangar. "Wanna see?"  
  
Excepting only a discouraging frown, the newcomer ignored him thoroughly. Hand slipping higher around Stringfellow's shoulders, Dominic Santini, owner/operator of Santini Air and foster father to both the Hawke brothers, steered him around the still glowering Locke toward the offices, his grip friendly but tight enough to brook no debate. "You're the one that knows what O'Connell wants, String. C'mon -- we'll get started on the drafts now and finish up at home tonight over a nice, cold beer."  
  
Once the duo had disappeared, the remaining members of the Airwolf team heaved a collective sigh. "Good old Dom," the bronze-haired Saint John murmured, returning to the helicopter and leaning against its open door. "He always did know how to handle String. Unlike you, Jason," he went on in a louder, chiding tone. "You really blew that one. What are you doing? Bucking for diplomat of the year?"  
  
"They do do a lot of wrangling." Mike rested his fists on his lean hips, grinning ingenuously at the dark glare this earned him. "You know it's true, buddy-boy. You and Saint John's baby brother rock and roll every time you're together more than five minutes."  
  
"Five minutes is the record," Jo added, staring disgustedly at her clothes. "Wonder if Tide with bleach will get that out?"  
  
Leaving Jo to handle her own laundry problems, Hawke cocked his head at the black agent, studying him between narrowed lids in a gaze disturbingly reminiscent of his sibling's. "What is it about you and my brother? I thought it would be Mike that String clashed with, but putting the both of you together is like adding gasoline to a fire. And this time it looked like you went out of your way to push him to the wall."  
  
Locke audibly ground his teeth, smoothing his navy suit jacket with one hand; the movements were jerky and imperfectly designed to cover his indignation. "I can't help it if he won't listen to reason. I've never worked with anyone as infuriating, and that includes, you, Rivers."  
  
Mike contrived to look disappointed. "I've been displaced," he mourned, giving Jo a wink.  
  
The tall Saint John Hawke chuckled, crossing one jeans' clad leg over the other and shoving his hands in his pockets. "Not yet, Mike, but hold that thought." He sobered, turning a sympathetic expression on the still- agitated agent. "Try to understand where he's coming from, Jason. String's had to fight the administration at every turn since he wasn't much more than eighteen years old. If he hadn't ..." He swallowed hard, gray eyes blurring for a single instant before reclaiming their sharp clarity. "... I'd still be a POW in Laos. Or dead."  
  
Locke took another turn, dark eyes burning a hole in the cement floor. "You were MIA in the service of your country. I'm sure in time the United States would have done a more thorough search and rescue even without that rebel stealing a secret, military weapon." The conspicuous silence from the man addressed caught his attention even though his snit, and he lifted his head, instantly apologetic. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that, but I believe it to be true."  
  
"Do you?" the other man challenged, a spark of bitterness entering his usually even tones. "After fifteen years I was listed as dead, the old projects closed out and my file deleted. Face it, Jason, I was buried and someone wanted me to stay that way. If String hadn't literally blackmailed the Company into maintaining a search, I'd be living in a cage eating rice." He caught himself, forcibly regaining his calm demeanor though firm solidarity remained. "My brother spent almost half his life fighting the Government to keep looking for me, and the only thing that made them listen was his taking Airwolf."  
  
Faced with such protective resolve and fraternal gratitude in his friend, Jason stopped mid-pace, shaking his head. "I don't mean to take anything away from your brother's devotion to you ..." he began.  
  
"You couldn't." But that wasn't directed at Locke so much as himself. Saint John essayed a smile to remove any possible offense. "Besides, even as a kid he was always independent...."  
  
"A maverick, you mean," Locke interjected sourly. "with enough talent to grow up into a hotshot test pilot who never had to learn to follow orders."  
  
"Never to follow them blindly," Hawke corrected quietly. "And that applies to me as well. Independence is one of the reasons we both survived Viet Nam."  
  
The clang of metal scraping on concrete filled the area as Jo readjusted the bucket more directly under the drip. "I should say it does apply to you both," she gibed, grinning over her shoulder at him. "I remember Uncle Dom pulling his hair out over you more than a few times. How about when you were sixteen, and ran off to Mexico with that rock band? Uncle Dom said you had the same wild indian streak that Uncle Allen did."  
  
Dark eyes flashing with irritation, Locke paced the small area in front of the chopper, long legs taking him from Mike's workbench to the tail rotor and back again. "We're not talking about a disobedient sixteen year old," he grumbled, waving his hands. "I swear, Saint John, if Michael wasn't so set on having your brother as a member of this team ..."  
  
"... you'd still be ringing him in on the tough ones," Hawke finished with a knowing wink. "He's been flying Airwolf practically solo for the past two years, and was the primary test pilot for her a long time before that." He gestured at the team in general. "Without him none of us would have made it through that defense perimeter when we pulled Archangel out of Mexico."  
  
"I like to think we'd've done okay even without him," Mike Rivers interjected, looking mildly hurt. "I've flown everything with wings since I joined the Air Force." He paused, honesty compelling him to add, "I liked to think we would have done okay, anyway. A Haversham defense screen is pretty tricky."  
  
"We'd've all crashed and burned in Mexico and you know it," Jo pronounced, giving the bucket a final pat before crawling completely out from under the chopper and getting to her feet. "You should give credit where it's due."  
  
Unmollified, Locke paced forward, then back, highly shined oxfords tapping on the concrete. "I'll give credit when he starts following orders. He's disrupting the morale of this entire team."  
  
"My morale is great," Mike offered, puffing out his chest.  
  
If Locke heard, he gave no indication. "I could have him up on charges for this. Insubordination, disobeying a direct order...."  
  
Saint John straightened, his attitude, as always, protective of his brother while remaining non-hostile to his teammates, including Locke. "That won't solve anything. Threatening String with charges might get you a sock to the chops but that's about it. He's not going to back down over bureaucratic objections." He lifted one shoulder fractionally. "Let's face it, Jason, he hasn't disrupted anything but your feathers. Let me talk to him. I'm sure we can work out something."  
  
"Better listen, Jason." That was Mike again, who was listening with as much interest as amusement. Contrary to expectations, soon after Stringfellow Hawke had returned to the Airwolf team, he and Mike Rivers -- an oil and water mixture if ever there was one -- had established a kind of an amiable camaraderie, composed in the beginning of wary respect for each other's abilities, soon adding a layer of genuine liking despite their dipolar personalities. "Besides, you'd never be able to make any charges stick. Having the Deputy Director of Operations on his side means he's coated with teflon. If Archangel were put to choose between him and you...." He shook his head pityingly, his implication clear.  
  
"He may have to." Locke stopped himself, glancing remorsefully at Saint John. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that, either. Your brother may be the finest pilot I've ever seen, but he handles authority as badly as those juvenile delinquents you took camping once."  
  
Hawke smiled. "They turned out fine in the end. So will String. You'll see."  
  
In the path of the pacing black agent, Mike caught his attention by waving both arms and painting on his widest, most buoyant grin. "Cheer up, Jason! Until then, you still have me!"  
  
Locke's groan was heartfelt enough to send Rivers back to work without another word.  
  
*** 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2  
  
Quite suddenly, Stringfellow Hawke was awake. There was no transition, no half-conscious state to mark the boundary between asleep and not. Blue eyes flashed open, a surge of adrenalin tracing each nerve and bringing his body to the same state of awareness as his mind. Training kicking in, he controlled his initial impulses and lay perfectly still, senses outstretched and seeking the source of the disturbance -- if such it was -- that had interrupted the deep sleep he'd slipped into almost immediately upon laying down.  
  
The possibility that this was a dream flickered and was gone. The dreams came often even now -- so long after Viet Nam, even longer from his parents' horrible deaths -- vivid memories of blood and death and loss, wrenching him back to wakefulness with a cry years-long training automatically smothered until it would not have betrayed a team in the field. But Hawke knew the difference between the dreams and the reality he inhabited. Sometimes the images were the same, but he always knew when the hurt was real. Like now.  
  
He strained the extraordinarily acute hearing he'd inherited from his father, but the two-story home that Dominic Santini had bought in the post- war boom of the 1950's remained still save for a loud rumble originating in the master bedroom down the hall. It wasn't surprising that Dominic was sawing the proverbial wood; they had spent several hours preparing for Monday's photo shoot, interspersed with Santini's combined remonstrances at Stringfellow on the virtue of cooperation, and his denouncement of Jason Locke as a bureaucratic stuffed shirt. Hawke's brooding silence on either subject hadn't shortened the old man's lecture a fraction, and it had been quite late before they'd called it a night. Dom's snoring is honestly earned, anyway, entered Hawke's quicksilver mind as a passing thought.  
  
At any other time he might have smiled faintly at that, but his foster father's snores were old and familiar; they would not have triggered the warning alarms that were even now rolling him to his feet without so much as a squeak of springs. Almost of its own volition his right hand slid under the bed's second pillow, extracting the nickel plated Colt automatic he hadn't felt comfortable sleeping without since his second week in Viet Nam.  
  
He didn't bother tossing on either robe or slippers; clad only in cotton pajama bottoms, he crossed to the door and eased it open, taking several seconds in the process so as to ensure the hinges would not creak. He listened at the crack, still hearing only the sounds of slumber from the other room, but it didn't matter -- he knew beyond knowing that there was someone else in the house. He padded cat-like out into the hall, back pressed against the light blue wallpaper that decorated most of the upstairs. Still there was no sound, no clue beyond his own, taut muscles and singing nerves that there was anything amiss at all.  
  
The staircase was wreathed in deep darkness, the floor below visible only as vague outlines in the light peeking through the curtained windows. Hawke crept to the staircase, deciding that his best bet would be to invoke the element of surprise. A rush would place him in the center of the living room and in attack position before anyone there had a chance to realize he was even awake. He took a deep breath, lithe muscles coiled ... and sprang! -- silently descending the carpeted steps two at a time. He'd reached the half-way point when trouble struck in the form of a steel tripwire catching his right ankle. He let out a yelp and dropped headfirst, losing his grip on the Colt almost immediately as he scrabbled for a handhold. He tumbled shoulder, hip ... twice over before his head struck the banister with blinding force. Hawke saw a bright flash of light, then the light faded to unrelenting black.  
  
*** 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3  
  
Saint John Hawke stretched his big-boned frame contentedly, feeling the carpet scrunch under his thighs, and the leather upholstery of the chair at his back. The E-Z Boy Lounger he'd bought on Mike's recommendation was every bit as comfortable as the other pilot had claimed, but try as he might, Hawke couldn't seem to get used to sitting in it. He'd sat, eaten, and slept on bare ground for the past fifteen years of his life, and had adapted to living as his Laotian captors had. To him, sitting upright in a chair was no longer a natural posture for his retrained body, though he generally forced himself when in the company of others.  
  
He slouched a little lower on his spine, generous mouth lifting sardonically on one side when a scantily clad actress on the television attacked an obviously fake dinosaur with a spear. Another one of Mike's recommendations that didn't quite live up to expectations. Prehistoric Cave Women From the Planet Hooter might be one of the younger pilot's favorite movies, but it would never win an Oscar, that's for sure. I might'a liked it when I was eighteen, he thought with some amusement, but not at nearly forty. Goes to prove how mature Mike's taste is, though.  
  
He used one hand to massage the crick in his neck, then the small of his back, feeling a twinge of pity for Rivers, who had been sent to the Lair late that afternoon. The Air Force, to whom he was still legally if not practically assigned, was requesting an emergency reconnaissance mission for the next day, something that would require the pilot's personal preparation. At that moment Saint John was glad his own area of expertise did not extend in that direction; he would have hated having to spend the night in the mountain retreat pouring over satellite photos with a magnifying glass. Instead of sitting here watching great art. Ha.  
  
In Mike's absence and particularly once Jason Locke had returned to his offices at DNS headquarters, Saint John, Jo and String had gotten a lot done this afternoon; the JetRanger was up to specs for the photo shoot Monday, and ready to take String back to their grandfather's cabin tomorrow ... this morning. A glance at the modified watch on his right wrist confirmed that it was now one-forty-five a.m. He yawned, muffling it in his palm, then rubbing his slightly red eyes, cursing his inability to sleep easily. He'd suffered insomnia more or less regularly since his return from the POW camps, refusing to resort to sleeping pills but preferring instead to ride out the long hours until his tired mind shut down of its own accord and granted him the blissful serenity he craved. He'd been willing to bet money that Prehistoric Cave Women From the Planet Hooter would have acted the soporific if anything would; obviously, it wasn't strong enough medicine for his brand of sleeplessness.  
  
Too many changes happening to fast, he admitted tiredly, watching without interest when a tyrannosaurus rex tripped into a tar pit and was fallen upon by rock wielding Amazons. My rescue from Burma and String's injuries would have been stressful enough. Add to that finding out that Dominic wasn't killed in that helicopter blast like we thought, having to rescue him from one of String's old enemies ... one Airwolf mission after another.... He sighed, stretching again. Maybe a vacation will help me unwind a bit. I haven't had a real vacation since before Viet Nam, when Dom, String and I followed that airshow around the midwest for two weeks. Think I'll talk String into taking a little fishing trip with me. The kid said he knew some great spots for bass.  
  
He was just ready to turn off the set and try warm milk instead when the cordless phone began to ring. "Who could that be this time of night?" he grumbled, pawing clumsily for the offending instrument that had somehow slid between the cushions of the lounger. He found it and clapped the receiver to his ear, grunting, "Yeah?" in a tone designed to convey extreme displeasure in as few words possible.  
  
"Is this Mr. Saint John Hawke?"  
  
The big blond opened his mouth to snap an affirmative, then stopped, a cold chill working its way up his spine. The voice was male, heavily accented -- Vietnamese? -- and faintly familiar though he couldn't immediately place it. "Who is this?" Hawke demanded, making no attempts at politeness.  
  
"Listen very carefully, Mr. Hawke." The coldly formal voice paused, addressing someone unidentified. "You will say something into this phone." There was a long silence then a muffled thud that to Saint John's heightened senses could have been the sound of a blow being administered. The caller's repeated guttural threat of, "Speak, if you value your life!" was followed by another thud, more brutal than the first, and in the background Hawke could hear a loud objection in a gravelly voice that he identified immediately.  
  
"Dom?" A lump of ice dropped into Hawke's stomach, his pulse beating like a sledgehammer in his temple. He pressed the phone hard against his ear, remembering suddenly that his brother and Dom were together. If that was a blow given for disobedience, it most probably was.... "String!" he yelled, holding his breath.  
  
The accent returned, sounding, if possible, more irritatingly smug. "Ah so. You have heard enough to prove that we have your brother and your friend. If you wish to see them alive again you will do exactly as I say."  
  
Saint John swallowed hard, bringing his own voice under control only with an effort. "What do you want? Who are you?"  
  
"Who I am you will find out quite soon. What I want is for you to go to your door and open it."  
  
"Open it?" The tall, bronze haired pilot skimmed the neat if spartan room once, one facet of his consciousness noting that everything was as pristine neat and clean as if it had been located in a hospital. A loathing of dirt and disorder was just one more legacy of living in the prison camps. Beyond that, his warrior's experience told him there would be nowhere to hide in the room should the situation call for it. The Danish style couch and E-Z Boy faced the inner wall; the expensive stereo and television sat in the entertainment center shelving at a right angle to the curtained windows. The front door was in a small alcove beyond the kitchenette, out of sight. Better handle this right the first time, he cautioned himself firmly.  
  
"I said to open your front door, Mr. Hawke," the voice repeated calmly. "Do it within one minute, or I shall put a bullet through your brother's head."  
  
There was no choice. The Airwolf pilot stated, "Okay. Don't do anything rash," and crossed to the door, taking the mobile phone with him. He opened it slowly, shoulder blades crawling with the expectation of receiving a shotgun blast in the face. What he saw was nothing quite as dramatic. A young man stood there, hands folded at his middle and making no effort to conceal the snub nosed automatic he held in one palm. Dressed casually in jeans and black turtleneck, the man looked like anyone off the street in Little Saigon -- or Tokyo, Hawke amended, suddenly placing the mysterious caller's accent. Not Vietnamese or Korean. Definitely Japan.  
  
"How did you get in here?" Hawke blurted, thrown at a loss. "This is a security building."  
  
The man only smiled coldly, offering a fractional little bow, more insult than courtesy. He pointed the gun casually in Hawke's direction and ushered him a few steps back inside the living room. "Nice place you have here," he said in perfect english, giving the apartment a cursory glance. "You are alone, yes? No woman?" The smile grew a shade wider when his dark brown eyes lit on the television screen. "Saw that movie. Know how it ends." He stared full at Hawke. "Everybody dies."  
  
"Thanks for the review," the pilot muttered, attention more firmly fixed on the phone. Louder, "Okay, your man is in. Now what?"  
  
"Now you go for a little ride," the caller responded. "Itsuko is to see that you have opportunity to contact no one. If you value the lives of your friend and your brother, you will do exactly as Itsuko commands." The line went dead.  
  
Saint John slowly lowered the receiver, staring at it worriedly for a moment before the aforementioned chaperon plucked it from his fingers and tossed it away. "Okay, Itsuko," Saint John Hawke said flatly. "Where do we go from here?"  
  
***  
  
The man was short, perhaps five foot seven, and stocky of stature, with the straight, jet hair and almond shaped eyes of his oriental heritage. Considering the brown business suit and striped tie, a Gucci briefcase might have looked more appropriate in his hand than the expensive Ruger pistol he carried. It was gripped expertly, however, without a trace of diffidence, and steadily enough to prove that he would have no hesitance about using it. He stood stiffly in the center of the room staring out the large front window, while another man, younger and also of Asian extraction, kept armed vigil from behind.  
  
On the paisley covered sofa that dominated the living room's inside wall, two prisoners sat side by side, watching them both. Each bore evidence of a hasty awakening: Dominic Santini's thinning gray hair stood up in spikes, and the right leg of his red-striped pajamas hung empty of the prosthetic foot he'd worn since the helicopter explosion some months before that had nearly claimed his life. He sat stiffly erect, one hand resting lightly on a somewhat battered but aware Stringfellow Hawke, whose hands were tightly bound behind him. The younger man's bare torso was marked by bruises, others darkening on his face; his eyes, however, were clear -- glittering sapphires filled with barely controlled rage.  
  
Dominic leaned to the side until his lips were only inches from his friend's ear. "You sure you don't know who these jokers are?" he asked, stiffening when the second captor shuffled his feet. "That older one looks kind'a familiar."  
  
Hawke shook his head fractionally, expression closed. "I've never seen them before. They're not here for us, anyway. You heard the phone call; we're just bait." His face grew, if possible, even harder, a hint of worry tightening a muscle in his jaw. "It's my brother they're after. Maybe from his intelligence work in 'Nam, even if their accent is all wrong."  
  
"More likely it's something recent." The old man scratched his chin, fingers rasping on the heavy beard there. "Saint John's racked up a lot of missions for the Firm since he got back -- more than you have lately. He's bound to've made a couple of enemies."  
  
"Maybe," the younger pilot acknowledged, squirming slightly in a futile attempt at finding a comfortable position for his bound arms. "Guess we'll find out."  
  
But they were not to be enlightened for some time. The grandfather clock was chiming a quarter after two when Santini cleared his throat loudly enough to attract the besuited and still unmoving stranger's attention. "We been sitting here a good half-hour, pal. You want to tell us now what it is you want? Or are we supposed to wait around until we grow roots."  
  
Flat brown eyes examined the two consideringly. "We must wait for Itsuko to return with the third member of the play. In the meantime perhaps it is only right that you know why it is you are to die."  
  
Santini exchanged a look with Hawke, who received this unsurprising information stoically. "Die?" Dominic repeated with more outrage than fear. "So it's a dirty, straight-out murder, is it?"  
  
"Not murder -- an execution." Offering the window a final glance, the stranger thumbed the hammer on the Ruger though did not cock it. "I am Omeko Yashiki. You have heard my name? No? So. My son, Ito ..." The guard bowed. "... and I served as samurai to Commander Takahashi Yahara." He paused as though expecting a reaction to the name; when there was none, disapproval flicked across his moon-shaped features. "The Commander was of the Special Attack Squadron, Imperial Japanese military forces. Westerners feared them as kamikaze."  
  
"And he's still alive?" Dom asked naively. Hawke merely lifted one brow.  
  
Disapproval shifted into a full frown. "Commander Yahara lost much face during the war when Navy Lieutenant Allen B. Hawke prevented him from destroying the aircraft carrier Saratoga as he had sworn to do. To be taken prisoner by the enemy is the ultimate shame for a kamikaze."  
  
"Lieutenant Hawke?" Stringfellow sat up a little straighter against Dom's arm, blue eyes widening. "You mean my father?"  
  
"The sins of the father are often visited upon the son," Yashiki quoted, looking at Hawke with new interest at the reminder. "In this case, both sons, but the eldest must pay first." He smiled, a cruel twist of full lips that sent a shiver up the prisoners' backs. "He will pay well."  
  
Temper and fraternal instincts igniting simultaneously, Hawke lunged forward awkwardly despite Dominic's quick snatch for his arm, fine boned face twisted with anger. "If you touch my brother, I'll kill you!"  
  
Had he been untied, he might have ended the nightmare at once. Such was not to be, however. Before Hawke had even made it completely to his feet, the silent guard was in position, sweeping his pistol in a wide, powerful arc. Stringfellow saw the blow coming and rolled away, but couldn't completely escape contact. The gunbarrel caught him brutally on the side of the face, snapping his head back and throwing him sideways into Dominic's lap. He let out a cry as he landed, momentarily stunned by the pain; then hatred returned full force, defiance bringing his head back up. "If you touch him--" he repeated, tensing for another try.  
  
"Cut it out, String," the old man growled, throwing both arms around his friend and holding on only with difficulty. "You bucking for a Section 8, or something?"  
  
The younger man spun furiously on his foster father, eyes blazing despite the swelling red-and-purple mark on his high cheekbone. "He's going to kill Saint John," he snapped, struggling to free himself from the man's tenacious grip.  
  
"He's gonna kill you if you don't lay off!" Santini gave him a furious shake, his own temper beginning to fray. "Just hang on, kid, we ain't done for yet." He laughed humorlessly. "It's usually you telling me that! Take both our advice, kid, and wait for the chance."  
  
Looking unconvinced, Hawke nevertheless subsided, shooting visual daggers at his captors. Through all this Yashiki did not so much as flick an eyelash. "You will learn respect," he said disinterestedly. He paused, then continued the previous discussion as though no interruption had occurred. "Thanks to Major Saint John Hawke, Commander Yahara died in combat before he was able to succeed in the one mission that would have expiated his failure -- the destruction of the nuclear reactor at Chimunga. That deficiency is about to be rectified by the one who thwarted that plan -- Major Hawke."  
  
The reaction he received to that was all Yashiki could have hoped for. Dom, helping his dazed friend back against the sofa, turned to gape through his beard. "Blowing Chimunga will kill thousands of people!"  
  
"You're nuts!" Stringfellow blurted at the same time, startled out of his hard-regained composure. "Saint John isn't going to help you."  
  
That elicited a smirk from the black-clad Ito, and a knowing look from Yashiki, who waggled the gun menacingly at the pair on the sofa. "Not even if it means saving the life of his only brother?"  
  
"Saint John wouldn't risk all those lives for any reason," Hawke shot back confidently, straining against his bonds. "Try to force him and you'll end up dead -- just like that crazy commander of yours."  
  
Yashiki crossed the distance between them in two steps, the sound of the hard, backhanded slap he administered sounding like a gunshot. "You will speak of Yahara-san with respect, or I shall personally cut out your impudent tongue."  
  
Insolent blue eyes glittered back at him, only the pointed automatic preventing the impending clash from taking place then and there. "You talk pretty big with that gun in your hand," the pilot returned coldly, flicking a strand of disordered gold-brown hair off his brow. "Are you half the man you claim to be without it?"  
  
The gambit very nearly worked. Speculation flashed briefly, fingers tightening on the trigger. "I shall derive much pleasure from watching your most dishonorable death," Yashiki replied, backing off from the provocation only with an effort. "It will take a very long time, I promise- -" A car entering the driveway served the dual purpose of interrupting the threat and replacing the anger with anticipation.  
  
"Saint John," Hawke breathed, swallowing hard.  
  
"My vengeance," Yashiki snarled, tossing the Ruger to his partner. He reached into a hidden sheath strapped between his shoulder blades, extracting a mid-length, curved sword with a sharpened edge. He made three practice slices in the air, short, controlled, and betraying many years practice with the deadly weapon. "It is time."  
  
"You'll never--"  
  
Hawke got no further, for without warning Yashiki tangled the fingers of his free hand in Stringfellow's hair, using the grip to drag the younger man off the sofa and to his knees. Instead of releasing him, he pulled harder, bowing Hawke brutally backward against his own body. "If either of you move, you die instantly," he promised, pressing the katana against Hawke's exposed throat.  
  
The tableau held through the sounds of two car doors opening and closing, then the scrunch of footsteps in the gravel drive. A moment later Saint John Hawke's large frame filled the doorway, gray eyes flash-scanning the room, Dom, and the black-clad guard who had moved closer to Santini's position and was covering him with the gun. "You all right, Dom?" he asked, gaze settling on his imperiled brother.  
  
"Oh, yeah. Dandy." Santini shifted on the sofa, glancing at the quiet man who had accompanied his older foster son. "I see you brought a date. Don't think I approve of your taste."  
  
There was no answer to that; rather, followed by Itsuko, the elder Hawke crossed the carpet to Yashiki and the bound Stringfellow. He was still several feet away when his escort skittled to the fore and abruptly planted a hard left jab to his midsection. "Not too close, dog," Itsuko warned, resuming his position out of range.  
  
Saint John doubled over with a gasp of escaping air, wheezing several seconds before forcing himself erect, one hand pressed against his midriff. "Guess I should have figured I'd see you again," was all he said by way of comment.  
  
The katana remained steady at Stringfellow's throat even as Yashiki gave the newcomer a courteous bow so at odds with his associate's strike. "The defeat of Commander Yahara did not end this matter. The death of my brother samurai and my master's honor must be avenged with your blood."  
  
Saint John shrugged fractionally with the aplomb of a man who has faced death too often in the past to get excited about it now. "Here I am, whatever your name was. You wanted my head? You got it. Let them go and let's get this over with." There was an immediate if muffled protest from Stringfellow, cut off when the razor edge bit into his skin; blood trickled down the steel and he drew a sharp breath, cut off when Saint John took an alarmed step forward. "No! He's not the one you want -- I am."  
  
The smug smile made the other look like a feasted cat for all the professional disdain he displayed. "My name is Omeko Yashiki, and you are quite correct, Major Hawke. It is you I want. You and the gunship that shot down Commander Yahara."  
  
"What makes you think I have access to a gunship?" Saint John asked carefully, deliberately not looking in his brother's direction though his fists clenched.  
  
The smile faded. "Let us not play unworthy games, Major," the stocky oriental snapped impatiently. "I have spent much money on information and know of the secret helicopter you pilot for the United States intelligence organization called the Department of National Security. I know that using it you will have more than enough firepower to complete Yahara-san's mission."  
  
Saint John stared disbelievingly, big hands unconsciously tightening in the fabric of his jeans. "You want me to blow the nuclear plant at Chimunga? Are you nuts?"  
  
The question was asked automatically, out of surprise, but Yashiki responded by yanking hard on the helpless Stringfellow, drawing more blood and a smothered gasp. "You will obey me," Omeko Yashiki gritted, round features tight with anger. "Agree or your brother dies now."  
  
There was a tense pause while the two regarded each other over the top of Stringfellow's head; neither man moved, the effect being that of two members of a wolf pack sizing each other up. Dom's agonized, "Saint John," was a harsh whisper in the still room and immediately cut off.  
  
Face hard, eyes hooded, every muscle as taut as steel cable, Saint John stared down his long nose at the self-styled modern samurai, gaze shifting from the oriental's face to his brother's, then trailing down to the blood- spotted knife. "Let him go," he said in a flat voice, "and I'll do as you say." 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4  
  
Yashiki bowed again, lips curled. "So." He swept the blade away, releasing his hold on Stringfellow's hair and giving him a shove. Bereft of the support, the younger Hawke fell forward, unable to stop himself without use of his hands. Saint John was there in an instant, dropping to one knee and holding his brother by the upper arms.  
  
"String?" he asked, allowing his worry to show through for the first time.  
  
Sapphire eyes glittered furiously back at him. It took several tries, but finally Stringfellow managed to give raspy voice to the angry protest that was plain in his face. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, allowing the older man to balance him back on his heels. "Why didn't you take that guy ..." He cut his eyes toward the hovering Itsuko. "... out when you had the chance?"  
  
Saint John studied him up and down, frowning at the bruises and paying particular attention to the cut on his throat, which, being superficial, had already stopped bleeding. "What did you expect me to do," he returned mildly. "Let them kill you?"  
  
"So now these nutcases can kill us both," the younger man retorted in a stronger voice.  
  
Indignation returning at the insult, Yashiki hefted the katana to waist level, his fingers again snagging in Stringfellow Hawke's hair. "Respect can be taught," he warned, bringing the blade into the pilots' range of view.  
  
Slowly, deliberately, Saint John's bronze head lifted to fix Yashiki a stare. There was an arctic chill in his gray eyes, the rimefrost of promises too terrible to relate. "Get your hands off my brother," he ordered in a tone so quietly deadly that Yashiki obeyed automatically, taking a single step backward and hefting the sword in a defensive posture. Released, Stringfellow too turned, his own frozen gaze a mirror image of his brother's; to look into those very similar pairs of eyes was to peer into the stygian depths of an open grave.  
  
This state lasted for several seconds with no one daring to so much as breathe. Then Saint John Hawke blinked and got casually to his feet, pulling his brother up with him. "Why not cut his hands free?" he suggested calmly, aura of menace converting to subliminal levels without waning an iota. "After all, you're the ones with the guns."  
  
The silent Itsuko moved two feet to the side, turning to train his automatic more fully on them both. He said something in Japanese, and Yashiki nodded. "I agree. It is dangerous enough to leave one of you with a measure of freedom; two is potentially suicidal."  
  
"We've been complimented, String," Saint John said with mock lightness. "We're dangerous."  
  
"And what am I?" Santini demanded from the sofa. "A walk in the park?"  
  
Yashiki ignored the old man. He backed up slowly, retrieving his gun from his son before sliding the sword back into the sheath under his suit jacket. "No more talk. We shall go directly to the black helicopter and from there to Chimunga. If there is any hint of betrayal, Major Hawke, your brother and friend die immediately, you soon after."  
  
Obeying a one-word order, Ito pulled Santini up. "I don't got a foot," the pilot grunted, windmilling his arms to keep his balance on one leg. "Don't expect me to keep up or nothing." He glanced at a crutch leaning in the corner near the door, a sly look further creasing the craggy features unhidden by the wiry beard. "If you won't get me my replacement, how about that crutch over there?"  
  
"That weapon, you mean," Yashiki returned with contempt, bringing the Ruger to bear on the center of the red and white pajamas. "If you cannot keep up, old man, you can be eliminated now."  
  
Santini rolled his eyes dramatically. "All right. All right. Just tryin' to cooperate, that's all." He hopped forward, snagging Stringfellow Hawke's bare shoulder to steady himself. When the three stood together, Yashiki jerked his head at his son.  
  
"Tie Major Hawke and the old man's hands as well," he ordered. "There must be no chance of failure this time."  
  
Ito slid his gun into the waistband of his jeans and extracted more rope from his pocket, scowling when Stringfellow stepped between him and his intended. "Not gonna do you any good," the pilot growled, rounded chin high. "If you think we're going to help you blow up a nuclear plant, then you are as crazy as I thought." He stood there, legs apart and braced, unyielding defiance smoldering in his eyes, and for a long moment the only sound in the room was that of a low growl in the back of Yashiki's throat.  
  
Though it felt as though eternity itself had lapsed, it was actually only seconds before the tall blond Saint John Hawke was in hasty motion. Despite his stoic facade, he was unable to hide the look of dismay that flashed across his face at this turn of events. He grabbed his brother's arm, roughly tugging him toward the door and nearly upsetting Dominic in the process. "We don't have a choice, String," the older Hawke cajoled through gritted teeth. "They're holding all the cards." Stringfellow staggered backward at the first yank then rebraced himself, eyes locked with Yashiki's; Saint John tugged again, adding with some desperation, "There's no reason to be stubborn about this."  
  
"Ha! There's no reason for the sun to come up tomorrow either," Santini snorted, hopping forward a step when Ito prodded him in the back with the gun, "but that's never stopped it, either."  
  
Keeping his feet firmly planted, the younger Hawke twisted until he could see his brother's face. His own bore a mixture of rebellion and the certainty of his actions. "I'm not going to be used as a weapon against you. Not like this."  
  
Saint John's returning look was enigmatic but carried that firm undercurrent of affection his stubborn younger brother had been able to evoke since they were children. "You're going to have to trust me on this, String. There's no other way."  
  
"If you go through with this, neither one of you will ever be able to live with yourselves," Santini interjected bluntly, scowling at his foster sons. "And neither will I. I'm with String, if we're gonna go down, let'em do it now and get it over with."  
  
Ito, standing behind Dom, glanced at the watch on his wrist, speaking for the first time. "We are behind schedule, Father. We must be at the plant before dawn."  
  
"Hai!" Though it was Stringfellow and Dominic who presented a united opposition, it was Saint John Hawke to whom the samurai directed his attentions. Both as eldest son and through his victory in aerial combat, it was the tall pilot who had become the foremost enemy of the master Yahara and, by association, his devotees. As Stringfellow had so accurately described, the others were, in effect, no more than living weapons to be used against him. "Major Hawke. The lives of your friend and your brother rest in your hands. We go now, or they die now."  
  
And there it was. No more time for decisions or delay. Saint John lifted both large hands palms open in a mollifying gesture, acceptance already on his lips; it was never uttered. Reading his brother's intentions and determined to preempt him, Stringfellow shifted his stance subtly, lithe muscles coiling. Without warning he poised himself on his left foot, lashing out in a perfectly executed crescent kick with his right to contact the nerve juncture in Yashiki's hip. Unbalanced by the sudden sharp pain, the oriental sagged, losing the gun. Using the opening, the young pilot pivoted on the same foot to delivering a second, more devastating forward kick to the center of the older man's face, then spinning on the advancing Itsuko. That proved to be his undoing, for Ito was already in motion; he shoved Dominic into Saint John, spilling them both to the side, then rammed the barrel of his gun hard into Stringfellow's lean middle, a short jab to one high cheekbone dropping the pilot to his knees, gasping for breath. Having neutralized one opponent, Ito stepped back to again cover Saint John, who had his arms full of Dominic, Itsuko closing in before either prisoner had a chance to join the fray. The whole incident had taken exactly four seconds.  
  
An experienced fighter, Omeko was already straightening, clapping a hand to his shattered nose. "Your death on this day was predestined at birth," he snarled through the blood streaming across his mouth. Fury stripped away the thin veneer of urbanity he'd been maintaining until now, dead Yahara's mission suddenly taking a backseat to his own embarrassment. He scooped up the gun and backed away, bringing it to bear on the kneeling Stringfellow. "I need only one hostage to accomplish my purpose. The old man will serve."  
  
"NO!" In an instant, Saint John's solid bulk was interposed between the weapon and his downed brother, blue-gray eyes wide and resolute. "Touch him and the deal's off," he snapped, putting one hand behind him and resting it protectively on String's bowed head.  
  
"You're all real brave against a man with his hands tied behind him," Santini added cuttingly, bending to put an arm around his younger son's shoulders. "You all right, kid?"  
  
Yashiki's full mouth twisted into a grimace. "This is not a matter of courage, though we will soon see how bravely you die." The sound of the 9mm Ruger being cocked was very loud in the suddenly silent room.  
  
"Wait, Father!" Ito's protest came just in time to prevent all three prisoners from dying then and there. The gunman's skin was flushed, taking on an expectancy that was somehow more frightening than his father's outrage. He bowed, a few inches only, not lowering his own gun from its bullseye on Dominic's back. "It was agreed, Sir, that the honor of the first kill would be mine."  
  
Yashiki hesitated, fingers twitching impatiently around the Ruger's grip, the desire to do the job himself distorting his thick features even further. Finally, he nodded curtly and stepped back a pace. "Hai. It was my word to you and to Yahara-san. Kill the boy; he will be an example for you, Major Hawke, of what will happen to the old man if you do not restore our master's honor as you agreed."  
  
Smiling cruelly, Ito pushed Dom aside and leveled his gun at the younger Hawke's head. Saint John uttered a protest and sidled to his left, powerful muscles flexed for the frantic pounce that would have either won him possession of the gun ... or a bullet. Itsuko precluded either from coming to pass by sweeping with his left foot and catching Saint John midstep; the pilot's legs went out from under him before ever he could complete the attempt. He landed on his hip, rolled and made it back to his feet just as the sharp multiple 'CRACK!' of a weapon discharging filled the air. Simultaneous with this, Ito Yashiki seemed to do a spastic little jig as he was forced backwards a full five feet. He landed sprawled on the carpet like a discarded rag doll, brown eyes wide with surprise.  
  
Time itself froze ... held ... while those remaining stared from the body to each other in puzzlement. It took several seconds before anyone realized that the blast had originated outside the front window, which had disintegrated into shards unnoticed under the cacophony of gunfire. Combat experience gave the prisoners the edge then. Striding forward two steps, Saint John reached the stunned Yashiki, who was gawking stupidly at his dead son. He brushed aside the drooping gun with his left hand, planting his right flush in the middle of the round face, drawing more blood from the already broken nose. Blinded, the stocky oriental staggered back and was thus unable to defend himself against the roundhouse left that smashed his jaw, or the follow-up that rendered him instantly unconscious.  
  
Several feet away, Itsuko was being treated in much the same fashion. His bound hands proving to be very little of a hindrance, Stringfellow Hawke threw himself at his captor in a full tackle, his weight and the force of the lunge slamming them both to the floor. The gun freewheeled under the sofa, and Stringfellow wiggled to straddle the man, pinning him, while Dominic Santini squatted, fist clenched. With methodical, almost scientific precision the criminal Itsuko was pounded into unconsciousness.  
  
Their enemies felled, the Hawke brothers and their foster father heaved a deep sigh. "What happened?" Santini wondered aloud, glancing from the neatly holed window to the red pool forming under Ito's body.  
  
Stringfellow rolled off Itsuko, nearly falling without use of his hands. "It can't be more of Yashiki's men," he panted, catching himself on his bound wrists, "and Saint John didn't have a chance to call in the police."  
  
"Or anyone else for that matter." Santini tapped Itsuko once more for good measure, grunting satisfaction when the man remained unresponsive. "That Yashiki guy planned things pretty good. Took us all without warning. So who...?"  
  
Saint John expanded his chest to the full, rising smoothly to his feet. He reached down to pull String up with one hand under his shoulder, making sure he was steady before releasing him. "It's not Yashiki's men," he said, next offering his assistance to Santini, who supported himself against a nearby chair. He moved to the window and waved, then gently nudged his brother around and began to tug at the rough ropes around his wrists. "I figured I'd better call in the cavalry on this one. That should be Jason and Archangel out there with Epsilon Guard in tow."  
  
As though on cue, the front door opened to admit the two aforementioned men, both carrying high-powered assault rifles and wearing headsets. Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III, a.k.a., Archangel, was a handsome man of about fifty years of age, athletic of build and wearing an ugly green kevlar vest over his white suit; with his dignified bearing it might have been a dinner jacket. "Is everyone all right?" he asked in a deceptively soft voice, his single blue eye scanning each man individually for signs of injury.  
  
Dominic heaved a dramatic "Whoop!" of relief, craning to peek at the soldiers who moved like dark shadows beyond the entrance, thuds of other boots audible from the rear of the house. "Never thought I'd be happy to see you, Michael," he said, grinning sloppily despite the sarcasm. "You, either, Locke."  
  
The nattily dressed black man, also wearing kevlar, gave Itsuko a light kick to make sure he was unconscious, only then taking his gun out of 'ready' position. "Don't let your gratitude overwhelm you, Dominic," he volleyed, mock affront earning a chuckle from the old Italian pilot. "You're a real ray of sunshine to me, too."  
  
Saint John Hawke gave a final pull on the ropes binding his brother; they came loose and Stringfellow sighed gratefully, making a clumsy attempt at rubbing his chafed wrists with swollen hands. He wrapped an arm across the black-and-blue marks on his bare chest and stomach, fine boned face assuming the impassive mask he invariably donned either after a close call or when he was in pain ... or both. "I appreciate it," he said after aborting an experimental deep breath. "Thought I was dead for sure."  
  
"You'll live a while longer yet," his elder brother replied calmly, using a forefinger to tilt his chin up. He glanced at the spreading bruises and touched the lump hidden under the brown hair, eliciting a wince and a curse from the other. "You're going to be stiff tomorrow, though. Not that you don't deserve it after that last little maneuver."  
  
In the act of tugging his striped pajamas into place, Santini paused, offering the younger Hawke a nasty scowl. "I'll second that. What kind of a hairbrained stunt did you think you were pulling? Rushing a man with a gun?"  
  
"Saint John did it, too," String retorted hotly, jerking himself free of his brother's light hold. "What did you think you were going to accomplish besides getting yourself shot?"  
  
The blond drew back to stare down his long nose. "Ito was going to blow your head off!"  
  
"Yahara was going to blow yours off!"  
  
The two brothers glared at each other for nearly half a minute, breaking contact only after Dom threw up both hands, nearly spilling himself onto the floor. "The war's over, in case you two ain't noticed," he growled from his precarious, one-legged stance against the chair. "String, get some ice on that cheek; you're working on a nasty shiner. Saint John, help me sit down here."  
  
During this, Michael Briggs acknowledged an all-clear from a uniformed man in the kitchen with a word into his headmike, then slid out of his bullet proof vest, letting it drop haphazardly to the floor. He retained possession of the Uzi, however, tucking it under his elbow. He was seemingly oblivious to the interchange between the Hawke's, though he picked his ears up at mention of the intended executions. "I was wondering why Mike jumped the gun like that," he remarked glancing at the still body on the carpet. "He was under orders to let the Firm's snipers make the shots after you three had stepped outside the house. Airwolf was only supposed to hang back in case there were guards we didn't know about."  
  
Still defensive, Stringfellow turned on him, a glower descending over his brow. "How was I supposed to know anyone was outside," he snapped, brushing back a strand of brown hair. "Like Dom said, Yashiki had this planned out."  
  
Broad shoulders drew back with returned reproach and more than a hint of his own wrath, usually kept under tight restraint but every bit as volcanic as his brother's. "I told you to trust me on this," Saint John shot back, fists resting on his hips. "Did you really think I was going to cooperate with a bunch of mass murderers?"  
  
Stringfellow hesitated, the challenge eliciting visible uncertainty. He glanced at Dominic, who was watching them both with paternal exasperation, his reservation clear: Would you do it to save Dom? Saint John caught the look, his indignation picking up an overlay of understanding. He looked at Dominic then back to Stringfellow, his gaze softening with an affection that extended that possible Achilles Heel to protecting his brother's life as well. "Point taken. But there wasn't any decision to be made. I knew Michael and the team were on the way; all I had to do was stall Yashiki. And keep everyone alive long enough for them to get into position," he added meaningfully, slapping his unchastened brother on the arm.  
  
Dominic deterred the threatened retort that shone in Stringfellow Hawke's dark blue eyes by clearing his throat loudly. "I'm just glad it's over. By the way, the shot that took out Ito was a good one. With the drapes closed there was only a few inches firing arc. I'm going to need a new window, but at least I don't have to start interviewing for a replacement pilot." That last was also directed at Stringfellow, who sighed resignedly but made no comment.  
  
Locke caught the look and chuckled. "Mike was using Airwolf's electronics to listen to the conversation in here. When he heard the order to shoot, he used the nose cameras to aim the chainguns. When Michael ..." He pointed at the white suited agent, who was listening quietly to the story; the blond grinned boyishly, giving Stringfellow a wink. "... and I heard the shots, we moved in to prevent the hostages ... that's you three ... from going down."  
  
"Nice to hear we still rate," Santini teased amiably, his relief still a palpable thing in the room.  
  
With the grounds secured, four men converged on the living room from the front yard and kitchen, busying themselves with the prisoners. Between them, they soon had the unconscious men cuffed and removed, and the corpse secured in a black bodybag. Still rubbing at his bruised chest and midsection, Stringfellow lowered himself stiffly onto the sofa out of the way, pinning a narrow eyed gaze on his brother. "I still want to know how you made contact. I was here when Yashiki called you; I know you couldn't have gotten a message out without alerting your guard."  
  
Saint John lifted his right wrist, pointing to the Government issue watch there. "I activated the emergency transponder in my watch. All Itsuko saw was me checking the time."  
  
Startled out of his irritation, Stringfellow turned wide, bright eyes on Jason Locke, who was watching him expectantly. "Emergency transponder?" he echoed, looking abashed for the first time.  
  
The black man rubbed his mustache between thumb and forefinger, lips widening into a smug and very satisfied smile. "Told you so," he stated simply, ambling out the door.  
  
***  
  
"... second stem to activate the transponder in emergency mode," Saint John was explaining to his brother at the airfield the next morning. Except for them, the hangar was deserted, Dom, Jo and Mike outside prepping the JetRanger for Stringfellow's flight home. "It'll squawk on a special Company band and continue to transmit until deactivated."  
  
The younger man accepted the stylish watch, holding it up to the light and examining it suspiciously. "And the Firm can activate it long distance any time they want to know where I am?"  
  
Saint John leaned back against the workbench and crossed his arms across his chest. "We can do the same thing in Airwolf if we need to track you down, or you us. That way you're never out of touch in case something like this happens again."  
  
Light glinted off the watchface, the plain leather band looking dark in the man's hand. Stringfellow continued to stare at the object, blue eyes narrowed, lips drawn into a disapproving line. "I still don't like it," he muttered, making no move to don the watch. "They'll be able to follow every move I make, no matter where I am. I won't even be free of them at the cabin."  
  
The ex-Prisoner of War straightened, a flash of emotion crossing his strong features. "Being anonymous isn't what it's all about," he corrected firmly, resting a hand on his brother's arm. "There's only one place you can ever be free." He tapped a forefinger against his own temple, sharp gray eyes unfocussing slightly. "Here. If you're free here, you're never really a prisoner. Not really."  
  
The younger man raised his head and their eyes locked, then Stringfellow Hawke slipped the watch on, both turning in unison at the sound of footsteps entering the hangar. "All gassed up and ready to go, kid!" Dominic Santini announced cheerfully, wiping his hands on a rag. "I can have you home in time to catch me a nice lunch!"  
  
"Yeah, I'm ready." Stringfellow paused, turning once more to his brother, a faint smile teasing his lips. "I'll look for you next weekend. We'll go spend a few days with Doc Gifford up at Crystal Lake. Introduce you to the biggest striped bass you ever ate. Until then, if you need me ..."  
  
Saint John raised his right wrist, exposing his own locator watch. "... we know how to find you," he finished, with a bright, unrepentant grin.  
  
***  
  
end 


End file.
